


Clem's Christmas at Fetter Lane

by ZeelosRN



Category: Simon Feximal Series - K. J. Charles, Sins of the Cities Series - K. J. Charles, Think of England - K. J. Charles
Genre: Christmas Party, Crossover, Gift Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 16:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17206559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeelosRN/pseuds/ZeelosRN
Summary: Inspired by a meme in the KJC Chat group, Clem meets Daniel da Silva over poetry, then meets Jo Caldwell at a reading, and Miss Kay ends up letting Clem host a Christmas party at her house. With a gift exchange.





	1. How the Great Christmas Crossover came to be

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the frame and one installment; I strongly encourage other additions. It's meant to be fluff but apparently I can only write dark things, so please help. NEEDS MORE FLUFF.

**From the private journal of Robert Caldwell**

For obvious reasons, by which I mean Simon's temperament and Miss Kay's, we were not in the habit of hosting dinners or soirees at Fetter Lane. I was known to live there, certainly by Henry, who was my editor and a friend, and by my publisher, and a few acquaintances from the Remnant and the Stratton, and a few correspondents. Occasionally one of them even stopped by, but for the most part, if I felt the need for society, I sought it elsewhere. After the placement of the cartouche, of course, this became something of a problem: I did not need boisterous joviality or crowds of drunken companions, but I did need something more of a circle of acquaintance than my two housemates, a pair of children, and Cornelia. Sam and Jo were lively enough, certainly, and I passed many pleasant hours with them, but nevertheless I grew lonely. I could no longer sit for hours at the Stratton, absorbing my former colleagues' frustrations and small triumphs--not with Simon lurking dourly in a corner. I was prepared, if I must, to live as a hermit for his sake, but it was unpleasant, and I sought ways of finding good company that were not too burdensome for my partner. For example, we discovered that at the Stratton Simon could sit untroubled as long as he brought a book, scribbled notes every few pages, and looked grim enough, so I was able to maintain some friendships there. In exchange, I was all but forced to take up boxing, although it was nearly completely counter to my natural inclinations, because Simon needed to practice with others of his skill level. He might, professionally, have let himself go--ghosts being much less vulnerable to a good left hook than to a properly chanted ritual--but his physical strength was so necessary to his self-regard that there was no question of allowing a lapse. I went to his gym, and put a good face on it. He generally made it worth my while, even if, while we were there, I had to deliberately avoid watching him for reasons of discretion.

It was an acquaintance from the Stratton who invited me along to a poetry reading, in December of '04. I sent, as always, only a provisional acceptance, since ghost-hunting was not a predictable employment or one with regular hours, but when the evening came, we were at liberty, and my bruises from the morning's practice were such that even my implacable Simon felt a little contrite, and volunteered to go. Sam, pubescent and all elbows, was too young to accompany us, but Jo was just old enough, and, from what my friend said, the reading was probably about as friendly a venue as we were likely to find for them to dip their toe in meeting people outside the family. Miss Kay accordingly felt obliged to come, as Jo's guard, and the four of us went out together, none of us having read any of this fellow Levy's poetry, but disposed to enjoy ourselves even if it was terrible.

When we first arrived, we felt terribly awkward. The reading was to be held in one of the classrooms at the Working Men's Institute. There were a great many chairs, and not nearly enough people to fill them, perhaps only a dozen beside ourselves. I had expected our little party to be able to blend in, but among so few, there was no blending to be had, even if I had been alone. Simon and Miss Kay put on their public faces, which is to say expressions of such chilly hauteur that only the very determined would dare approach, and poor Jo went stiff beside me. My friend from the Stratton was not present. (We arrived home to a note of apology, as he had been struck temporarily blind by a headache.) One cluster of men stood by the podium, two of them pointing to a sheaf of paper and talking animatedly in low voices, two more looking on avidly, and one clearly part of that group but smiling with polite incomprehension, hands in his pockets and eyes a little glazed. He was worth a second glance: it wasn't often I saw someone with a build to match Simon's, and this man was much taller, well over six feet. He was well-dressed compared to his rather showy comrades, tanned, sun-bleached blond, and of decidedly military bearing, and in all ways not the Bloomsbury sort except that he was here, and wearing a green carnation in his buttonhole.

The other group was even less approachable, composed as it was of laboring types who all seemed to know each other. They didn't even glance over as we entered. Fortunately, just as I was deciding to have a seat and hope the poetry would make up for the awkwardness, a man I hadn't even seen turned away from the window. His face lit up with a smile at the sight of us. "New people! Hello!" He came forward with a rapid, loud step. He was clearly Indian, but his speech was more well-bred than the circumstances, or, indeed, his enthusiasm had led me to expect. His thick, dark hair was starting to grey, but his eyes reminded me of Sam's: kind, vital, but a little wary. The combination was quite startlingly attractive. "I'm Clem Talleyfer. I'm so glad to see you. We don't get so many new people to hear living poets." He shook hands with us one by one as we gave our names. I watched when he touched Jo, because their reactions sometimes needed cover, but this time their smile became genuine and the tension left their shoulders.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Talleyfer," they said. "One of my uncle's friends was going to meet us here, I think. Do you know him? Mr. Bray?"

Mr. Talleyfer nodded. "I'm surprised he isn't here. I hope he's all right. It's almost time to start. Will you sit?"

The poetry wasn't dreadful. I found it relaxing to listen to words so entirely unlike anything I might write myself. (I can, when necessary, make clever rhymes with some facility, but my attempts at poetry were juvenile in both senses.) I could disengage the analytical part of my brain, always present even when reading novels for enjoyment, and allow the broken, stumbling lines to affect me as they would. There was certainly something to them, although my first impression was mostly distaste. The distaste fluctuated as I kept listening, until I could feel a shape under it: my discomfort fitted over the sequence of images like a sheet laid over a wire frame to suggest an animal. At first I paid attention to be polite, but I became engrossed, so that when Mr. Levy concluded his final poem and stepped away from the podium, I had no idea whether my companions had enjoyed it or not. 'Enjoyed' might not have been the word anyway. We didn't applaud and it didn't seem to be expected. Mr. Levy took a drink of water and gave his audience a little smile, then took a few steps forward and spoke to one of the men in the front row.

As everyone stood up and stretched, Jo attached themselves again to Mr. Talleyfer, bringing Miss Kay in their wake. Soon the three of them were deep in conversation, Jo bubbling with enthusiasm that gladdened my heart. Simon was manifestly though politely bored, clearly thinking about something else, until the man with the green carnation greeted him: "I say, you're not Simon Feximal, are you?"

"I am, yes." This recognition frequently presaged either long stories about supposedly haunted family properties, or unwelcome joviality on the plausibility of ghost-hunting as a profession. Simon and I braced ourselves.

"Archie Curtis. My uncle took me to a few of your matches when I was a boy. Do you still box?"

Apparently I was not to escape boxing even at a poetry reading, although at least the fellow had hit upon one of the very few topics that could draw Simon into something approaching friendly conversation. The name rang a bell, and I took a second look: this must be the Captain Curtis who had killed a man a few months ago at a house party. I was nearby if the cartouche was needed, but Simon did not reach for me when they shook hands. Perhaps my old colleagues had done a better job than I expected, and nothing remained to be told. I relaxed as they settled to talk, satisfied that all three of my more reserved companions were enjoying their evening and hoping that we might do this again, perhaps with slightly more beautiful poetry.

As I took my turn standing to the side, politely not paying attention, one of the men who'd been at the podium came over. If Curtis was nothing I had expected, this man was all of it, a breathing embodiment of the Bloomsbury type. Only a little less well-favored than the striking Mr. Talleyfer, he was far better if less soberly dressed, and carried himself with conscious sensuality. From his glossy hair down to his equally glossy shoes, every bit of him was modern and artificial, but beautifully so, a reminder that artifice and artistry came from the same root. Only his eyes were serious. He was looking at me in turn, and perhaps liking what he saw. Our glances met for a moment as he waited by Curtis' side for a pause in the conversation. There was just the slightest shift of his weight towards Curtis, and the slightest shift of mine towards Simon, and we traded the little almost-smiles of men who understood each other.

"Ah! Daniel," Curtis said. "Mr. Feximal, may I introduce my friend, Daniel da Silva? He's Edward Levy's editor and a poet in his own right." His lover's a poet, maybe that's how the story was told, I thought, in the second before Simon and da Silva shook hands and the cartouche flared to life.

I'd felt much worse. Da Silva's ghosts were neither ancient nor unusually powerful. Still, I was not prepared, and thanks to Karswell's malice even ordinary, everyday ghosts were quite painful. I didn't scream, but I was unable to prevent a little grunt, and I could feel myself blanch. "Robert?" Simon asked, although of course he could feel it.

"It's nothing," I said, smiling at Curtis and da Silva. "Just a twinge."

"My friend Robert Caldwell," Simon said.

"A pleasure," da Silva said, as we shook. Nothing happened when I touched him, of course, just the friendly pressure of a hand against my own.

"I've read the Casebooks, of course," Curtis said, as we shook hands. "I couldn't very well ask Mr. Feximal if the character was based on him, but I suppose I can ask you."

"It is him," I said, smiling. "People bring their ghost troubles to him all the time. We do what we can to help." This was a variation on the answer I always gave to that question. Those who encountered the supernatural and needed us would conclude the stories were true, and come; those who had no need would assume the stories were fiction, and merely think me a good sport. Curtis seemed to be in the second group. His lover tilted his head a little, assessing me. There was a third group, who assumed Simon and I defrauded the grieving and credulous. It couldn't be helped, though I was sorry for the possible friendships lost that way.

"A great many castles and country estates must be haunted, I suppose," da Silva drawled, confirming my guess. His jab struck deeper than he meant it to, and I thought he might have seen.

"All that's needed to release a trapped spirit is for the story to be told," I said, then tried a sally of my own. "It's the unspeakable crimes that fester into hauntings." Simon gave me a sharp look, because I hardly ever came even that close to referring to matters of blood and bone and mortar, but da Silva for all his cleverness lacked the context to understand, and he took my words as I intended him to take them.

His eyes sparked, and I think I might have been saved from a really spectacular set-down by the arrival of Jo, bouncing up to my side, with Miss Kay and Mr. Talleyfer behind them. "Uncle Robert," they said, practically vibrating.

"You look happy." Miss Kay, in contrast, looked like she had accidentally taken a sip from her scrying teacup instead of her drinking teacup again.

"I have consented to host a Christmas party," she said, but spoiled the severity of the declaration when a smile escaped as she looked at Jo. "Since we have enough space."

"Sam will be so happy!" Jo said. "A real party!"

"It's my fault, I'm afraid," Mr. Talleyfer said. "I mentioned that the friend's house where we usually gather isn't available this year. I didn't mean to impose."

"It's no imposition," Miss Kay said, dour again but looking at Jo.

"A Christmas party?" Simon asked, completely nonplussed. "But we don't celebrate Christmas."

"It's not necessary," Mr. Talleyfer said. "There won't be any church, or anything, just good cheer and good company. We started years ago when- when another friend was having a hard time, because he was lonely, and it can be difficult, when everyone seems to have family to go home to and yours detests you or doesn't know, um, important things about your, um, friends, and so we get together to, well, to be together." He took a breath. "Mr. Curtis, Mr. da Silva, will you come?"

Curtis and da Silva looked at each other, then back at Talleyfer. "Certainly," da Silva said. "We wouldn't miss it."


	2. Professional opinions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daniel's attempts to choose a gift have unexpected results.

Formal invitations arrived a few days after the reading. "Are you sure you want to go?" Archie asked, as Daniel wrote out his acceptance. "They seem like a lot of odd people, and of course, I know Christmas isn't your bag."

Daniel snorted. "We're odd people, too, you know, and it's not like my family expects me to be home for Christmas. My mother wants me to come for the eighth candle on the tenth, that's all. Do your uncles want you?"

Archie shook his head. "Sir Henry's still abroad, and Sir Maurice and I will go to church together on the twenty-fourth. But still."

"I do want to go," Daniel said, because with Archie it was easiest to be frank. "I've weathered Christmas parties before, you know." Admittedly, at University he had usually had a friend or two to whisper with, and had not been the only Jew. He got the impression this was going to be something different. "I want to know Mr. Talleyfer better. He's actually read all of Levy, you know, and he was able to quote a few lines out of The Fish-pond, which I appreciate, and he tends to know interesting people." And trust them too much, apparently, but it wasn't Talleyfer's fault if a couple of con artists came to one of the readings he organized. "Are you sure you want to go? It's hardly high society."

"It's not, but I liked Mr. Talleyfer a great deal, and it sounded-" he paused. "You're better at this sort of thing. He was implying that men like us could attend the party together, wasn't he? Queer sorts?"

"He was. However, he also agreed to let people he'd never met host it." Daniel was comfortable with the risk to himself, especially alone. He was less comfortable with the risk to Archie, and with having to shepherd Archie through what could and could not be said in a relatively safe place. Still, they had to do this somehow. Talleyfer was queer himself, Daniel was sure, because over the course of a few meetings to discuss poetry and set up the reading his friend Mr. Green had come up too many times, and Mr. Talleyfer had no control over his eyes at all. He sighed. If worst came to worst, meaning blackmail, they could conceivably turn Feximal and Caldwell over to Sir Maurice. "Let's go. It will be educational." And he wanted a chance to see what Caldwell and Feximal were up to, besides each other. They were apparently protecting a young person in need of protection, if he had understood Jo Caldwell's living situation correctly, but he knew perfectly well that loyalty to family didn't necessarily imply any other public virtues.

They sent their acceptances, and a few days later received further instructions. There was to be a gift exchange, but as a social mixer, each guest was to bring a gift for one person selected at hazard. Daniel had been assigned, his card said, Miss Theodosia Kay, their hostess. He accordingly set himself to learn a bit more about her, for well-meaning reasons having nothing at all to do with her association with a couple of frauds.

She didn't exist. There was no Theodosia Kay residing in the city of London, as far as parish records were concerned. 166 Fetter Lane had last been registered as the property of a Mr. Julian Karswell, in 1865. With neither time nor inclination to seek Mr. Karswell, or any mention of a Theodosia Karswell, Daniel instead stopped by the flat of a colleague of his, one of Sir Maurice's other men. She was making up for the evening when he arrived, but he stayed to talk and watch, because whether as Miss Sincerity or as John Tanner, she had an ear for all sorts of gossip. He had to offer something in exchange, of course, and chose the truth of Lambdon's demise as being the funniest to tell and the least politically sensitive. She laughed at his telling and patted his hand and commiserated with him on the unaesthetic violence they had to occasionally witness in their line of work, but her beautiful, dark-lined eyes grew sharp and serious when he mentioned the name of Feximal. "Don't tell me you've gotten mixed up with him, my darling Daniel. You may enjoy your lions, but he's not for you."

"I should say not. No, but Curtis and I have an invitation to a party at his house. Lion's den, then?"

She frowned. "Sir Maurice set you on him? I wouldn't have thought-" she stopped, and looked again at Daniel, who felt abruptly chilled.

"Not Sir Maurice," he said, slowly. "No one set us to meet him. We encountered each other by chance. As it happens, his ward likes Levy's poetry."

"I hope you're not lying to me, sweet Daniel," she said, and he had the impression that it was John Tanner looking out of Miss Sincerity's face. "If Sir Ranjit sent you, there is no briefing in the world that will prepare you."

He shook his head. He had only the faintest idea of who Sir Ranjit was, someone in some other department. "He didn't. We've never spoken. It's chance, as I said. I have no need to prod at their secrets, and they invited me along with others. Do I need to send apologies anyway?"

"No- no, you will probably be quite safe, if they only know you're a poet. But be careful of who touches you, and don't let anyone else know you've gone. If Sir Ranjit finds out, you might find yourself with an assignment you won't like."

"Be careful of who touches me?" He remembered, suddenly, the feel of Simon Feximal's hand on his, callused and firm, and the pain it had caused Caldwell. Not jealousy, surely, he could not have misread that look they shared. "Are they spiritualist charlatans who might plant evidence on me, or something?"

She swept to her feet, throwing a lace shawl over her shoulders. "I need to leave to make my curtain time," she said. "And no. No, Feximal and his biographer and his foster sister are honest tradespeople. Good luck, my heart."

He sent a note round to ask Archie to meet him for dinner, and grilled him about those ridiculous pulp stories he liked so much. He picked up a volume of Fragmentalist poetry, not his own or Levy's, and a pair of candles, and tied them up with a bit of green ribbon, because whatever devilish thing he was getting involved in, it wouldn't do to offend his hostess.

After that, the party itself was benign. Daniel was almost disappointed, as Mr. Talleyfer's contagious happiness swamped them, to discover that he was relaxing and enjoying himself. Miss Kay thanked him perfunctorily for the gift, and if she then set both candles and book aside and forgot about them, he seemed to have at least fulfilled his role adequately. The note of profuse thanks he received the following Candlemas was much more unsettling, as he had no idea what she had found so useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendship between Archie and Daniel and Simon and Robert has terrible implications around 1914, so, um, let's not go there, at least not in a Christmas special. Sorry.


End file.
